who get lost between sighs and restless nights.

Amongst Other Things

That colour which turns to pink, and possibly
To purple from blue;
That colour which coils from the hurt
You’ve gone through;
That colour of demise, as it has been
Called many times;
But I know and feel, that is just
Not true.

That colour which plays with a charlatan
In deceit;
That colour of lust and love, and all
That heat;
That colour which makes you forget, just to
Rhetoric a sunset,
Not that you can do so, not that you can let
Those aplomb thoughts bleed.

That colours which can, and must
Drive you insane;
That colour of elicit emotion, when you’re just so
Tired of mundane;
That colour which engraves its power, when you
Oughtn’t pay heed,
But you will, because you like to be different, like
To be a hurricane.

That colour which blooms, of regret
In October;
That colour which delicates rotten grape, somehow
Still sober;
That colour when touched, becomes of
A ludicrous soul and such;
But we call ourselves birds, committing ourselves
To all the hopers.

That colour which embraces the
Call of death;
That colour which enwraps a coffin
With wreath;
That colour which you dream of, in the
Sunlit beams;
Which drives you nostalgic and
Out of breath.

That colour which falters the hope
Of existence;
That colour which lets you bleed to a
Thought of thence;
That colour of tears, when someone you
Hold dear, disappears;
When all you wanted was a tinct of pixie dust, just a
Step of belief over the fence.

That colour which completely and incompletely
Beguiles my death bed;
That colour which will remind me of the
Words I’ve said;
That colour which throughout I see, for it has been
Made my fiend be,
Just the way those lives I’ve held, all those piddly demons
I have been coerced to wed;

About:

I'm a 19-year-old budding poet from the hills of North India who absolutely loves people and their personalities (feel more than welcome to check out the "About" page of my blog).
My name, Kavya, literally translates into "a collection of poems," and I think the fistful of poetry I indulge in, I try to make of myself, helps me live upto my name.
I tend to write about the different people I have discovered inside of myself and others, concocting them into a definition, an image, a reality, a poem.